


As I Stared into the Sun

by Narkito



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 16:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2658104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narkito/pseuds/Narkito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home to find a badly injured Sherlock, but the real surprise comes when he realises who the attacker was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As I Stared into the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> So I started this as an attempt to fill a request from the kink!meme, and Dark!John had a mind of its own, and wanted a different story told. 
> 
> This story is quite experimental for me and may or may not be confusing at times. There are NO graphic mentions of violence or any kind of gore.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

_Goddamn, Jesus, fuck. A, B, C, John, A, B, C. It’s not the same when it’s someone you care for, isn’t it? Damn, fuck, why is there so much blood on his shirt? Focus, Watson, focus. A is for airway, check it. Head tilt-- chin lift, good. B is for breathing. Yes, yes, good. C is for… elevated pulse. Shallow breathing. Fuck. Focus again. Cleared ABCs. Check for obvious injuries. Left eye swollen shut, bloody nose, not displaced, may be broken though. This damned buttons, fuck it, just rip them. Chest, blunt trauma to the chest, broken ribs, or maybe just badly bruised, impossible to tell without x-ray, fuck, I’m not an emergency doctor, fuck, fuck, fuck._

“Sherlock, open your eyes for me. Can you do that? Open your eyes.”

This is the kind of scenario you avoid thinking about, getting home to… to this. You pray this never happens. Whenever the thought enters your mind you rationalise it, you diminish it under the weight of statistics and forethought. I’ll leave my gun over here, where is easy to reach, but not obvious; the butcher’s knife over there; the bust figure here, difficult to take in hand, but bloody useful as a blunt object. Yet, the danger still remains, unaltered and unfazed by your concerns and precautions. You have a double life as a substitute doctor and a consulting detective’s consultant-cum-soundwall. Your partner brushes elbows with high profile criminals on a monthly basis. It is bound to happen. It has to happen; at least once. And then you start hoping for that one time to end up in a high note, attacker apprehended (or attacker _s_ , plural. Most likely to be plural, there’s two of you after all), mystery solved, day saved by Holmes & co. Then the thought passes and you make sure not to bring it up willingly again. Until it does, so you go through your rationalizations, excuses and statistics again. Nothing left but to hope for the best.

“Sherlock, can you hear me? Nod if you can hear me. For heaven’s sake, do something.”

_Unconscious male, around thirties, blunt trauma to the chest, broken ribs? Maybe. Broken nose? Maybe! Put in recovery position. Unadvisable in case of spinal or neck injury, but necessary because he’s been bleeding into his throat for-- I don’t know for how long. Jesus, fuck, I don’t know. Don’t panic, don’t panic, it’s harder when you care for them, you know that, but it won’t do any good. ABCs completed and taken care of, patient unresponsive to voice… what’s next? Pain, try pain. Sharp squeeze to the lunula to avoid the grimacing effect…_

The sharp cry from Sherlock’s lips cuts neatly into John’s thought process, no articulated word came from him, but at least he opened his eyes and withdrew his hand from John’s grasp.

“Glasgow of 8, _Jesus_ , that’s not… fuck.”

 _Breathe in, breathe out, no use for you here if you can’t keep it together, Glasgow 8 is a good number, is a moderate neurological impairment, it’s workable. He’s breathing on his own; he’s going to be fine. No gunshot wounds, no obvious loss of blood. Breathe in, breathe out. For all you know, he’s just out cold_.

_“John, are you still there?”_

He had forgotten all about Lestrade on the other side of the phone. John picked up his mobile and put it to his ear, holding it against his shoulder.

“Yes, I’m here,” _begin palpation in areas less likely to be tender and then move on to more tender areas_.

_“What’s happening, I thought I heard Sherlock.”_

“Yes, he’s— he’s unconscious and I can’t wake him up, tell the guys from the ambulance he’s at Glasgow eight and shows no signs of abdominal rigidity. How far out are you?”

_“Four minutes, give or take. John, are you safe? Did you check the flat? Is the attacker still there?”_

_Well, shit._

“No, just the sitting room and the kitchen, I didn’t check anywhere else.”

_“Damn, step on it Donovan!”_

_Patient is stable, there’s nothing else you can do. There’s nothing else, you don’t have the tools; you can’t. Just, just… oh, god, no— calm the fuck down, Watson, breathe in, breathe out. Calm the fuck down._

Sherlock moaned and lifted a heavy hand up to John’s shirt collar. His eyelids fluttering rapidly, still unable to fully focus, but at least more awake than before. _Glasgow is improving, that’s good, yes, it’s good._

“It’s alright, Sherlock, you’re going to be fine. Help is on the way.”

Sherlock mumbled in response, this time making an extra effort to enunciate his words.

“It was you,” came out his croak.

“I— I don’t understand.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly and tried again.

“It was you,” he repeated.

“I’m right here, Sherlock, you’re going to be fine, I’m right here, stay put until the paramedics arrive.”

“No. It _was you_.”

“Sherlock, I don’t… the ambulance is a minute out, just hang on and don’t move.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand and closed his eyes against the hardwood floor, his forehead glistening with a fine sheen of exhausted sweat.

When you pray against falling into the hands of robbers, assassins, rapists and other depredatory degenerates, you also ask for a chance to protect your loved ones, you ask to be in the right place at the right time, you do not wish this sort of end for yourself, and you do not wish it upon others. You just want to be there, for better or worse. You trust his fighting abilities; he’s highly trained, after all, by the best Queen and Country can provide; you trust your bond enough to know he doesn’t have a death wish anymore, that’s he’s as far away from suicidal as you have ever seen him, you know he’ll do his best to protect himself. But you also know his knowledge is vast in the theoretical and lacking in the practical, you know training will always pale against the harsh light of reality, against the thrumming of your heart in your chest, against the sharp edge of a knife against your throat. You also know nothing shines brighter and hotter than a puzzle, the lure of the danger too strong and resourceful to be ignored. You want to be there, you pray for a sign, for a way of knowing, for a way of stopping the unstoppable. You pray and hope somebody is listening.

Nobody is listening.

And if they are, they don’t care.

You were not there.

_Just hurry up, dammit!_

And because you were not there, you are left with questions and an unquenchable fear that you might have to answer yourself alone, that your best friend won’t be there to tell you how it all went. Possibilities unfold themselves into packs of twos and threes, they multiply against each other, they fragment and glee into despair. Did the attacker come through the front door? Or the fire scape? Did he trip against the swivelling stool? Where was he in all of this? Did he hear them come in? Was he eating when he came? Drinking tea? Is this the last time I’ll hear him breathe? That I feel the rustle of his clothes against mine? That I hold his hand? Caress his cheek? You’re more than capable to answer yourself some of these questions, given enough time.

You do not dare to contemplate the possibility.

_It was me? What does that even mean? Where they coming for me? Is this my fault? Are they still here?_

There was a whisper of clothes behind his back and a scent he associates with home came bustling down the stairs.

“Not one paper out of place,” he said, the man atop the stairs. He hadn’t shown his face yet, but the voice was eerily familiar.

John felt like he was shaking within himself.

“Seeing as I was done no matter what I did or where I went from here, I decided to stay and peruse your room. Not a paper out of place, everything where I would’ve put it, even the books that are nowhere where they should, are exactly where I would’ve left them once I had forgotten I had them.”

A man. An all too familiar man. An impossible man.

The man striked an absolute resemblance to John; the cadence of his words, the weight of his steps, the wrinkles around his eyes, the clenching and unclenching of his hand. But the eyes, my god, the eyes, these are the eyes of a man who’s been to war and is all too aware of the irreconcilable truths it bears. These are the eyes John had to avoid looking into when he came back, the eyes he did his best to forget he had, they eyes that made people he once knew stop dead on their tracks, made them hesitate; the first clue John had been left behind somewhere in the deep solace of Afghanistan, buried neck deep into the sand. The invitations and calls to catch up die down slowly over time once they’ve looked into his eyes.

The impossible man made his way downstairs, a careful step at a time; he was holding his abdomen close, almost-black red blood trickled between his fingers into nothingness.

_My gun over here, where it’s easy to reach, but not obvious._

The impossible man stumbled and caught himself against the wall, sliding against it until he was sitting on the bottom step, standing barely a head taller than John, whose knees are still to the floor. Their eyes locked into each other’s.

_He smells like sand and crisp-hot air, I know him, I know who he is. This is insane, I’m going mad, I’m… No, this is impossible, shake yourself; think again, where’s the trick? There has to be, you’re not insane, you can’t be, it wouldn’t—think again…_

“No trick, I’m afraid.”

“But it can’t be.”

“But it is.”

“Impossible.”

“Yet I am, just as you are.”

“How?”

“Difficult to tell.”

_A trick. Sherlock could prove this, he could tell me how he’s doing this, he could…_

“Not the reason I attacked him though.”

“Are you reading my mind?”

“No, of course not, nothing of the sort, we’re the same you and I. I can see where your thoughts are going, because I would be thinking the same.”

_Please, God, if you exist, let me be in the right place at the right time, let me protect him at the best of my abilities._

“What are you here for?” he asks the impossible man, yet he just stares back, exploring his eyes.

John’s palms clenched against his trousers, back stiff and rounded up shoulders, prepared to pounce. Military ready in point-five seconds.

“Easy,” said the impossible man, stiffening slightly against the wall, “I’ll die in a few minutes, nothing to fear from me anymore.”

“Yes, but what were you here for?”

_Hot sweat. An eyelash in my finger after the shower. Sand. Dust that gets everywhere. The crackling sound of a radio. The vibrations of the rotor blades stuttering against his skin. We’re one._

“Are you starting to feel it? Oh, don’t look so surprised, it’s the bond between you and I.”

“Where did you come from?”

“And that, John, dear, is the real question. You called to me as you laid staring into my sun; your blood trickled into my face when you made your last plea of despair. You were beautiful and full, richness I had not encountered before. You were carried out of the desert on a flying craft, but a part of you stayed with me. I looked into your eyes and tasted your soul. I made your dying wish a reality, and then I wished I were you.”

_Please, God, let me live._

His heart picked up its pace, thrumming away against his chest. He felt himself slip into panic.

The impossible man sagged further into the wall, the downward stain on his clothes difficult to ignore. John’s mind frayed at the seams.

John turned away from the impossible man, to check on Sherlock, except that when he did, he felt like he was too far away, a whole abyss between the two of them. He tried to reach to him, to feel his pulse, but his arm wouldn’t extend far enough, he turned back to face the impossible man, and found himself closer than before, an indescribable pull tugging at his chest.

“Don’t be rude, you’re ruining our moment.”

“People are coming, policemen are on their way, and they’ll be here in a matter of seconds.”

“No, they won’t. I’m too heavy for this world, relative to me they are barely crawling out of their seats, we can carry on.”

 _I’m insane. This is it. I’ve gone the deep end_.

John leaned forwards and pressed his entire weight into the wound of the impossible man. There was a howl of agony that pierced his ears and a rush of pain stabbed him in the back, shooting through to the other side. Visions of the desert danced across his eyes, as the stairs of the flat melt under the unrelenting sun. He was hot and cold all over, an aching to his side; the bullet that pierced him once, pierced him again, his shoulder exploding in white-hot heat. The impossible man radiated bright and freezing at once, a soothing sensation to his skin that sat uncomfortably on his mind. The bottom step of the stairs dug into his face as his panic slipped down his chest, and the world went black one more time.

* * *

 

_”I think he’s waking up.”_

_“John? John? Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”_

“Did I get to live again?”

A light shone into his eyes, dragging up memories of the impossible man. A machine beeped to his right.

“Doctor Watson, I’m Doctor Stewart, I’m a neurologist. Do you know where you are?”

He looked around, even when he didn’t have to, the smell and the blanched walls told him enough.

“Hospital,” said he, a roughness in his voice that was not there before.

“Yes, do you know the date?”

He got him there, too confused to figure out much else, was he back in Camp Bastion, or was he back in England? He can’t tell.

“Not sure.”

“Quite alright. Do you have any medical conditions I should know about?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Any allergies?”

“No.”

“Alright, doctor, you’ve had a seizure. As I understand the police found you and you were brought by ambulance. Had you ever had a seizure before?”

“No. Never.”

“Alright, your records didn’t show anything of the sort, either. I’ll do a neurological check now.”

John laid back and followed the doctor’s instructions.

_A seizure? That’s—I’ve never had a seizure before. Good thing Lestrade found me, then. Lestrade? SHERLOCK!_

John grabbed the doctor’s hand, panic pooling in his chest.

“The man I came with? How’s he?”

“You mean your brother?”

“What?!”

“Yes, um, I understand he’s your twin brother?”.

_Impossible, no, impossible. Wake up, I need to wake up. Jesus fuck, no. What the hell is this? I want to go home, I need to go. I have to go now._

The doctor held John by the shoulders before he managed to get out of bed, only to hand him a kidney dish when it became obvious he was about to be sick.

The hospital room went black and John sank back into the darkness.

* * *

 

Somebody’s been snapping fingers in front of him for a while now, he can tell by the worried look he was getting from the owner of said fingers, there was an eerie calmness about the room, the kind of quietness that settles when things get completely out of hand and nobody’s sure how to fix them.

“John. John. Are you alright?”

“I think he’s waking up, sir.”

“John, can you hear me? Paramedics are working on Sherlock now; they’ll be back for you. Can you hear me?”

“Mmm,” that’s all he could manage. A soft murmur that signified life.

His head was on the last step of the stairs, there was blood all over his hands and a lingering smell of flowers.

“John, I know you’re tired and you’re not your best, but can you tell me what the attacker looked like?”

John’s chest ached with the question. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t tell.

_“Detective, let us through, we need to do our job.”_

“Sherlock?” he managed to mutter out.

“Well enough to start an argument with one of the officers.”

John smiled at that and allowed himself go back to rest again.


End file.
